#forgotten realms fic

[space-writes]

seven emotions tag

tagged by @revenantlore, thank you! for this, let’s do Vizaeth, my most wildly emotional of boys~

Rule: choose one OC at a time, search any of your writings that contain that OC, and share passages where that character expresses such emotions in this list: joy, sadness, anger, anxiety, fear, disgust, embarrassment bonus points if the emotion is implied but not listed in the text by name. if there’s a reason the character does not express one of those emotions, feel free to share that reasoning instead.

[ID - a red decorative divider]

joy

from little death

Seated in his palm is the skeleton of a rat. Contained within its ribcage is Merdax’s eye, and, as Vizaeth raises his arm, it rolls towards him in recognition. A thin thread of power springs to life, running from the centre of his mind to the centre of hers, and she sits up on her hind legs. <Master!> He’s done it. He’s done it! A smile splits his face, and when he looks at Rhylfein, he finds an answering grin. “Nice work,” Rhylfein says. Vizaeth looks back to his familiar, who cocks her skull to one side, tail twitching, and warmth clutches at his heart. She’s more than nice work. She’s perfect.

sadness

from with tender tongue undo me

His stomach aches. No, deeper than that; the hard, dark place in the centre of him hurts, a hollow of gristle and bone and bad memories. He curls into himself, and Rhylfein draws him close, up against the warmth of his chest, still asking what’s wrong and what answer can he give? He’s not good, he’s not perfect, he’s not beautiful—he’s a patchwork of scars and necromancy posing as a boy and if Rhylfein knew how he got this body, he wouldn’t want to fuck it, he’d want to destroy it. He doesn’t know how long he lays like that, in the awful black behind his eyes and the undeserved comfort of Rhylfein’s arms. He’s detached. Unmoored. Maybe his not-quite-fixed magic has come undone again. Is this what it feels like when your soul unravels?

anger

from fury to dislocate reason

The spell cuts out abruptly. Vizaeth roll to his knees, gasping, retching, blood and bile stinging his throat. His face is hot, flushed with humiliation, and he can feel the careful decoration of his eyes streaking down it in ruins. He’s a mess, a monster, and once again Viconia has painted him this way in front of Pharaun. He’s going to rip out all her precious hair and cram it down her throat—she wants to fight like a Stenchstreets brat, she can die like one. He’ll carve her into a summoning circle, feed her brothers to whatever Lolth sends him, she can go to the Demonwebs screaming how fucking sorry she is!

anxiety

from the hardest part

“The Archmage wants to see you.” Six words no apprentice ever wants to hear, least of all mere days after their disaster of an aptitude exam. That they come from Nalfein’s mouth only makes them worse. Vizaeth’s throat tastes like acid—he threw up before his exam and he threw up after and he’s thrown up almost every day since. Pharaun hasn’t told him what he scored yet, only kissed him twice, fucked him once, and told him to be patient. Being patient makes his skin crawl.

fear

from on faith alone

The nearer they get to the surface, the worse Vizaeth feels. It starts as a nervous nausea behind lips pressed tight and silent and, as they rise through the depths, out of Her perfect darkness and sheltering stone, it spreads until it turns his limbs numb, disconnects his skin, stutters his heart. The moment he sights the cavemouth, he stops dead. “No.” He tries to declare it, but it comes out barely a whisper. The others move past him, and Master Do'Urden goes right up to the edge, where the light—the light, oh Lolth, the light—actually touches him. Beyond that threshold lies the surface. Nothing above, all that’s sacred below, crawling with faeries and iblith—he can’t go out there, he’s not meant to go out there, none of them are meant to go out there.

disgust

from wet (the modern AU fic)

Blood-red satin clings to hips which won’t ever shrink enough, no matter how little he eats. Black lace hangs limp and empty over a chest sliced flat by the most expensive surgeon Pharaun’s money could buy, yet by some foul illusion the scraps of fabric put back every lost curve. The scrawny mannequin staring at him is the most hideous thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he wants to run screaming at the mirror and smash through the glass to choke the life out of it.

[ID - a red decorative divider]

no-pressure tagging @winterandwords @talesofsorrowandofruin @mjjune and @zmwrites

Obsession taglist: @foxboyclit (ask to be +/-)

[overmorrowpine]

as a certified Conlang Enjoyer one of my favorite things is to analyze fictional language snippets for their pieces, and as i've been reading the drizzt books recently, i've been fighting a lot with how drow words work (why is this language so IRREGULAR it's worse than english istg), So!

pluralization in the drow language and how it works:

several things seem to be happening here, first, the "base" plural, is -in or -en. see: haszak/haszakkin [illithid], ilharess/ilharessen [matron]. consonant endings will also be doubled if they are not already.

then, there are the really soft consonants. think like the letter L; a word ending in the letter L would be pluralized with simply -n. see: gol/goln [goblin]. no doubling of consonants seems to happen.

in words ending with N, the pluralization marker seems to be -a. see: brorn/brorna [surprise].

then, we get some really weird endings, because the wiki has SIX recorded pluralizations. SIX. my instincts are that the three above are fairly common, and the following two are much less so and likely to be only seen in a few words, especially considering the words seen are both versions of "spider".

"orb": spider. plural, "orbb".

"lhorb": specifically a dangerous spider. plural, "lhorbbyth".

i would assume those are more archaic endings, but who knows!

then there's "rivvil", which means human, and gets pluralized to "rivvin". don't really know what's happening there, ngl, although my best guess is that it used to be "rivviln" and the L sound got swallowed into the -n by drow speaking fast, especially considering that word would likely be used most commonly during raids where a lot of things are happening and you want to get orders out fast.

there's also "kulg", which means blockage/snag/hitch, and "kulggen", which means deliberate rampart/shield. this does not necessarily break the rules seen earlier, merely implies that "shield", in drow, is literally smth along the lines of "blockages". (which, for a society built around cutthroat survival, does kinda make sense).

there is also "kyorl", which means to watch, and then "kyorlin", which means guarding/watching/waiting. that one's funky; it has the -in ending which implies plurality, but it seems instead to be a tense marker here. however, it could make sense that it literally translates to smth like "multiple to-watch" instead, and only loosely translates to watching. it could also be leftover from a shift in language; we just don't know. it also doesn't have the just -n from a word ending in L like you see earlier in goln.

you see this again in "quarth", to command, vs "quarthen", commanded/ordered. could be a tense change, could be a pluralization marker that in english encompasses a tense change.

other thing i've noticed:

apostrophes seem to be in use when words get combined. see: abbil [trusted friend/comrade] vs khal'abbil [my trusted friend/comrade]. this also implies that many words translated as one word (such as para'dene, scapegoat, or qual'laelay, argument/disagreement) are compound words as well. an apostrophe in a name might imply that it's an unconventional name, combining two words not typically used in drow names, rather than name fragments more often used.

other cool things, assumtions, and speculation:

qu'ellar [house], qu'lith [blood], and qu'uente [guts] all seem to have the same root, which implies interesting things about the literal translation of "house". makes sense though, given what we've seen of noble houses and how they work.

colnbluth [non-drow] is quite possibly a compound word, even though it doesn't have the apostrophe; dobluth [outcast] seems to have the same suffix, so my guess is that -bluth translates to something like banished/exile. given that, colnbluth could literally translate to something like "outsiders-banished", with a pre-existing plural on "outsiders". if pluralized differently, likely to be "colnbluthen", or remain "colnbluth"; i'm not sure. outcast, though, would most likely be pluralized as "dobluthen".

darthiir [surface elves/traitors] does not seem to have a plural form, or is the plural form already. my guess is this, like rivvil/rivvin, is a word that got eroded by speaking quickly on raids, and that older forms of the language had it closer to "darthirrin" or "darthiirrin" or smth, following the same -in/-en ending.

in conclusion:

the drow language is wildly irregular, rather complicated, and yet does still have Some common threads along words that make it feel like a real language. go forth and write fic well with this new information and analysis or whatever

[shadow-djinni]

evil old men, anyone?

[inaconstantstateofchange]

don't come crying - a young!Raphael fic

An incredible rendition of young!Raphael by @shahs1221, here: please go check her out and give her some well-deserved adoration for it!

A/N: I'm gonna be so honest, I have no idea how to tag this in a comprehensible way, relationship-wise. Suffice to say, the Mephisto-lovers are... probably going to appreciate this more than I wish you would, and if you too are fifty leagues down the Niche Forgotten Realms Characters™ rabbit hole, you may also be enticed by the Baalphegor inclusion. 18+, please and thank you.

Summary:

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here. Or: Centuries prior to the events of the game, Raphael's return from a routine fetch quest on Mephistopheles's orders is interrupted by a summons to the throne room. His father has a lesson to impart to him, and he's going to ensure it sticks.

This is part of an ongoing story I've had in the back of my mind for several weeks now. Rather than another WIP longfic, I'll be posting additional segments from this 'verse in a series if/when I add more. If @sky-kiss has any say in it, I'm sure I will.

The only background info you really need is:

All characters are drawn from actual Forgotten Realms lore.

Raphael has recently been plucked from the Material Plane to join his father's court on Cania, in the Nine Hells.

Due to Raphael's stunted development, and an unwillingness to be shamed by his spawn's weakness, Mephistopheles has placed Raphael under the purview of his consort, Baalphegor.

Baalphegor's body is able to produce an empowering draught, too weak to hold much significance to true fiends, but sufficient to bolster Raphael's growth.

Finally, it is a pet headcanon I've incorporated into this 'verse that Baalphegor is the same individual later know as Haarlep, but you are welcome to use your own interpretation.

Raphael stumbles through the extravagant entrance doors to Mephistar, the flesh-shearing winds of Cania grabbing after him as he ducks behind the solid, enchanted stone. He’s done his best to cover all exposed skin, but there is always some that escapes his notice, leaving him bleeding out strength he can ill afford to lose. He loathes these “errands” his father sends him on, tasks purported to test his skill, devotion, and cunning. In reality, it feels more like busywork designed to keep him weak and subservient, reminding him of his contentious existence in the hierarchy and reinforcing his dependence on his father’s dubious goodwill.

The desiccated parchment that proved the focus of this most recent quest crinkles slightly, as he shifts his gaze up, the slight sound echoing across the cavernous hall as he looks with certainty for the being he knows to be waiting for his return, just as always. But — they’re not there.

He furrows his brow, an agitated and disquieting anger growing within his gut. He strides across the marble floor on frostbitten feet he can barely feel, shoving the parchment at the lone figure of Mephistopheles’s chamberlain Barbas, standing at attention at his post, and wearing his habitual sneer as he looks down at Raphael. Raphael ignores it for now, as ever, but files the snub away with all the other insults he will one day be strong enough to return tenfold.

“Where is m—the Lady Baalphegor?” He demands imperiously. They are almost always waiting for him upon his return to bestow his reward. That is the deal, the entire reason he engages in these banal fetch quests even though they are entirely beneath his rank and status. He pushes sharply at the errant thought of the pretty fiction it makes, knowing all the while that his true choice is to bow to his father’s whims or perish. True or not, it does no good to dwell on such matters, not when he will be changing them just as soon as he can manage.

Barbas’s sneer gouges even deeper into his face, growing a biting and nearly gleeful edge as he answers Raphael, “Well, young lord, as your august presence must surely have ascertained, the Lady is certainly not here.”

Raphael can feel his face going blotchy and red, and curses his mortal heritage once again for its constant betrayals. The ice-blue crystals in the eye sockets of the chamberlain harden and glint with glee at the sight. Raphael spins on his heel, marching furiously away, the parchment crumpling further within his fist. Barbas’s mocking voice rings out behind him, “Don’t forget to report to His Grace, little lord! He insisted it be done immediately upon your return.”

Raphael almost turns again to berate him, but manages to stop himself at the last moment, lest he lose even more face from the encounter. He’ll make his report as quickly as possible, then hunt down his wayward… Baalphegor, and claim his rightful recompense. The brilliant halls of Mephistar blur around him as he storms through them, focusing only on making his way to his father’s great hall with haste.

He doesn’t wait to be announced, merely pushes firmly on the doors, both with his physical form and, in a manner only recently attained, with the lashings of his own metaphysical aspect. They creak open, the sound like distant screams even on the well-kept mechanisms, and he steps through without hesitation, words of complaint already springing to his lips, when he stops dead in his tracks.

He’s found Baalphegor.

The succubus – and they are in full succubus form in this moment – is perched indolently on his father’s lap, where he sits on his ostentatious throne. But not just perched, no — impaled, as he finds when, with stricken eyes, he watches them move their body in a smooth, undulating motion up, degree by degree, before dropping back down, brilliant hair falling around them and catching the flickering hellfire-light as it glints off their red-brown skin. Soft, melodious moans are driven from their throat with each movement, as if pushed out by the — by the member within them. Their round breasts shift with the motion, the revitalizing milk within them welling up and dripping down their chest, squandered and disregarded.

He swallows, throat dry, his eyes and chest burning in stark opposition with one another.

His father casts an apathetic glance across the hall, and his eyes alight on Raphael, a cruel smirk curling at his lips. “Ah, the returning triumphant! What have you brought me this time?” His voice is nothing but mocking, no attempt made to couch his disregard for his unwanted and unloved spawn.

Raphael blinks, attempting to reason past the howling fury within him. He has never before felt so truly attuned to his more fiendish instincts, working in concert with his mortal ones in a truly dangerous storm. Everything within him is raging at the broken contract, even as it boils with jealousy at the manhandling of something that is his, and it is only the barest dregs of his staunch self-preservation that manage to keep him from attempting something truly foolish. He swore when he first came to this wretched plane that he would be its master one day, and he’ll be damned – well and truly – if he fails here.

He holds the parchment, now looking rather worse for wear, out before him on a finely trembling hand. He searches for the words he needs in a mind nearly whited out by rage.

“I… your cult in Waterdeep sends their obeisance, y–your Grace.” He curses his tongue for its fumbling, driving home further how well his father’s ploy is working to discomfit him.

“Oh,” Mephistopheles waves a careless hand. “That collection of rabble. You will leave it with my steward.”

Raphael ducks his head a bare inch, keeping his eyes away from Baalphegor as much as he can, and turns to leave.

His father’s voice rings out after him before he has completed even half his turn, sharpening with the first warning edges of his infamous temper. “Where do you think you are going, whelp? You have not yet been dismissed.”

Raphael turns back to face him, slow and careful, as the true danger of the situation sets in. He has rarely found himself in the presence of his father when these moods strike, and never without at least the tenuous support of Baalphegor behind him. And yet… he meets their gaze now, searching, and the barest fraction desperate, but there is nothing. Their red eyes meet his without flinching, cold as Cania’s glaciers. Trickles of the subtly shimmering draught spilling from their breasts have reached down to their hips now, soaking into the thatch of hair between their legs.

He tears his eyes away and forces his attention back to the far greater threat, scrambling for an answer that will satisfy his father.

“My apologies, your Grace.” The epithet comes easier this time, its passage eased by his awareness of his own precarious position. “I misunderstood your direction, and wished only to carry out your will with utmost alacrity.”

Mephistopheles rests his chin insouciantly on his hand, elbow propped against the arm of his throne. His voice, when he speaks, is sardonic and shows no signs of the ongoing actions of the succubus on his lap. “Oh very nicely salvaged, whelp. My wishes, however, are for you to remain just where you are, and appreciate the lesson I’ve prepared for you.”

Raphael swallows, the boiling heat within him growing fiercer, rage intertwined with other, less-savory feelings.

With little warning, Mephistopheles moves his hand to entangle within Baalphegor’s tresses, pulling the succubus fiercely down onto him as he wrenches their head back against his shoulder. A tremulous cry breaks from their throat, and Raphael only barely keeps himself from starting forward at the sound.

Mephistopheles brings his free hand forward and toys with Baalphegor’s breasts, pushed forward into the air from their current position. He twists pitilessly at them, prompting yet more cries as the liquid inside spills out in greater quantities, splashing, wasted, against the smooth skin of Baalphegor’s stomach. It runs in rivulets onto the throne, and down, to collect into puddles on the floor of the grand hall.

Raphael feels his stomach turn even as his mouth, well-trained by association, waters, unhindered by every other horrible aspect of this waking nightmare.

Mephistopheles wipes his hand dismissively on Baalphegor’s hair, leaving behind silvery streaks, then draws them up by their hair and hip, beginning to move within them in earnest as he continues his reproach. Raphael wants to close his eyes, his ears, every one of his senses, but knows such an admission of weakness would be worse than his undoing.

“You’ve prevailed enough upon my largess, and I am no longer willing to indulge your weakness.” Mephistopheles sneers. “You’ve proven more fortunate than any other cambion within the Hells, but from now on you will make your own way, or fail. Such is the way of Baator.”

The fires around the hall burn fiercer in alignment with their lord as he looks down at his unloved progeny. “Should you find yourself desperate for one last taste to stay your appetites, however, you may lap it from the floor like the whelp you are, and thank me for the concession.”

Raphael feels like he is become hellfire himself, the hatred he knew within him for his progenitor stoked to dizzyingly fierce new heights. Jaw aching with the effort of withholding the flood of vitriol within him, he grits out, “My thanks for your… beneficence. I would not dream of prevailing upon it further.”

Mephistopheles snorts, dismissive, then turns his attentions back to Baalphegor, by all accounts having forgotten Raphael’s entire existence.

Raphael stands, Baalphegor’s unfeeling eyes burning into his, until he is finally – finally – dismissed. All the while, the ambitions within him, already cast in carbon, are pressurized further and further, until they are as fearsome diamond, reflecting the blood and fire around him.

He will not remain his father’s lesser for long. He will see him deposed, and make him suffer for these indignities heaped upon his person.

By Asmodeus, he swears it.

[dragonagitator]

How to help Karlach in your post-game fix-it fics:

Assuming you didn't skip a lot of content, we end the game at character level 12 with enough XP to be this >< close to level 13. Level 13 Clerics gain access to the 7th-level spell Regenerate, which can regrow missing body parts.

So Karlach really only needs to chill out in Avernus for like a week while we take Shadowheart out adventuring to get enough XP to level up. Then we can use Helsik's ritual to portal into Avernus and grow Karlach a new heart.

The D&D module Descent Into Avernus has a bunch of useful info on the setting if you want to write about the process of tracking down Karlach once you arrive in Avernus. Since she lived there for 10 years, if this plan is hatched before she's forced to return then she should be able to recommend a meeting spot or somewhere you can leave her a message that you've arrived. Regardless, the Infernal Rapture restaurant in the Wandering Emporium is apparently the only place in Avernus you can get a meal that doesn't taste like ash, and thus that seems like a good spot to plan to meet or wait for someone to eventually pass through.

Removing the infernal engine first to make room for the regenerated heart might be tricky, so take Dammon with you. Since it's been functioning as an artificial heart and Faerun hasn't yet developed the artificial life support technologies used during heart transplants, Karlach will almost certainly briefly die at least once during the process, so also load up on Revivify scrolls.

You may need to cast Revivify more than once if she technically dies multiple times during the process because death and resurrection in D&D aren't just biological processes; they're also recalling the soul to the body. BG3 was very generous with the time limit (IIRC it just has to be done before the next long rest), but standard D&D rules are that it must be cast within a minute of death. To be on the safe side, I'd recommend spamming Revivify once per minute until the "surgery" is complete.

Getting back out of Avernus could also be tricky, so you likely need to leave someone behind in Baldur's Gate to periodically perform the ritual to reopen the portal for your return.

(My "Modern Girl in Faerun" self-insert WIP was originally going to be just a retelling of the events of the game, but I've already got enough post-game plotlines for a sequel and I'm nowhere close to finish writing the first story yet lol. Like yes Gale I will return to Waterdeep with you, but we gotta do a thing for Karlach first. And then even once we're back from Avernus, wedding planning in Waterdeep might hit a few hiccups with the events of Dragon Heist and Dungeon of the Mad Mage unfolding in the background. Damnit, Volo, we're on our way to a cake tasting appointment, we don't have time for this shit, go recruit someone else.)

[pepto-bismolfan]

I'm writing a self indulgent fanfic about an 80s AU where the characters of the avatar series play their characters in DND!!!

will it be any good? IDK. have I ever written fanfiction? no but I am now cause there is NONE

[dice-n-antlers]

Thinking about Astarion (because of course I am) and the spell True Resurrection.

There’s been some debate over the dates on his headstone and how long he’s been dead and how old he was when he died. The dates are listed kinda weird, but the general consensus is that he’s exactly at or just under 200 years (un)dead.

It is true that, as written, the creature must be dead “no longer than 200 years” for the spell to work.

However.

I think you can argue that in Astarion’s case (and for vampires in general) that it doesn’t matter.

Of course, to work within the confines of the game, the spell has to be written with specific rules and limits. However, rules can be bent and in a tabletop setting, this would be up to DM discretion. As you can see in the spell description, the soul of the creature must also be free and willing to return to life and their body must not have died of old age. So, why the 200-year restriction? To answer that question, let’s talk about souls in the Forgotten Realms.

In general, when an ensouled creature dies, the soul moseys on over to the fugue plane over the course of a few days or even up to a month. This is why there are different resurrection spells that have to be used within a minute or ten days; because the soul is still sorta hanging around.

Once on the fugue plane, the soul just kinda hangs out. Waiting. After about a tenday-ish, a divine postal worker from the soul’s chosen deity comes to pick up the soul and deliver it to its final resting place on the home plane of their deity. The soul can’t be forced or tricked into following the wrong mailman. And there are exceptions to this rule as well. For instance, a soul who wasn’t particularly faithful might end up waiting centuries before someone shows up. If they wait too long, the soul may fade out of existence or Kelemvor may judge them before then.

Once the soul has been prime-delivered to their deity’s planar doorstep, they become a petitioner and their form and the nature of the afterlife can vary wildly depending on who they follow. Some exist in bliss or anguish. Memories of their life on Toril may fade. In the case of elves, they tend to retain their individuality and identity and may eventually be reincarnated in a cycle seeking perfection.

(Note: non-elven petitioners of the Seldarine pantheon of Arvandor could appear as elven or with elven features in death even if they were not elves in their mortal life. Same goes for drow, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings and their respective gods and planes. So you could even make the argument that a non-elf could then enter the elven reincarnation cycle and be elven in their future life if they worship Sehanine Moonbow or Corellon Larethian, etc. Consider also that the Reincarnation spell has the potential to change a dead creature into almost any race without effecting their soul; therefore reincarnating an elf into a tiefling but not removing them from their normal elven reincarnation cycle.)

(But I digress)

The point is, when you are raising a creature from the dead, you are pulling them from somewhere in that natural process. Depending on how long they have been dead, they may no longer exist, or may have little to no memory of their mortal life, they may not want to come back, they may have already been reincarnated into another life, or you might be pissing off some deity. In fact, once a soul is a petitioner, their deity has to approve of their return to life as well. Not to mention, for most souls there may not be much worth coming back to after 200 years; there is likely nothing remaining of their former life and loved ones.

Again, the soul must be both free and willing.

So what about Astarion? To bastardize his own quote: his soul is RIGHT THERE.

He died, sure, but his soul didn’t go anywhere. If you didn’t ascend him, you know his soul exists intact. It’s not on the fugue plane or any final resting plane and hasn’t been reincarnated. His body is dead(ish), but didn’t die of old age. Not to mention, the Monster Manual specifically lists (re)killing them and bringing them back to life as a potential way to cure a vampire.

Assuming that Astarion is willing to return to a full, mortal life, I see no barrier to True Resurrecting him… except that you might need to kill him first… and you need a fuckton of diamonds.

In short: think of the 200-year thing as more of a guideline than a rule. Alternatively, consider that Astarion may have been un-dead for a good long time, but he has not been dead-dead for 200 years.

Now, go forth Tavs! Go kill and resurrect your vampire boyfriend!

[alistair-blackwood]

i love sincerely love working with dungeon meshi's magic system and the way mana sickness is depicted, like it has the breadth and scope for some truly powerful and wacky fun shit, but you can also easily bring down the hammer when you want to put the characters in difficult situations they can't get out of without a little creativity. i found when writing for baldur's gate 3 that, unless i was in a modified setting, i was hard-pressed thinking up fun ways for characters to solve their problems without just using magic, especially for the small things. i mean, what fun is throwing a character into a river and needing to warm them up when you can just cast prestidigitation?? it's one of the first things a novice can learn and also it's a cantrip, it literally costs nothing!

[my-favourite-zhent]

WIP Wednesday

I never get these done on time, sorry folks.

Tagged by the lovely @coreene (who's forgotten realms lore posts were super useful for some of the world building for this WIP, Wet Parade I'm looking at you!)

I shall tag @fistfuloftarenths @dustdeepsea @thisaccountisagainstmywill

@captainsigge @littleplasticrat @luvwich do as you like, when you like~

Below the cut is a snippet from chapter three of Fortune and Favour. What is Fortune and Favour? Well I started another long fic but haven't posted it here because I'm lazy and didn't edit the screenshot yet, muahaha.

In the distance he could begin to make out the silhouette of the temple.

“There, lass.” He gestured with his chin. “We're coming upon it now.”

“Oh!” She twisted and leaned forward in her seat, straining to see.

He watched as her shoulders sagged in disappointment and confusion. “Are– are you sure that's it?”

“Quite sure.”

“But it doesn't look anything like the illustrations, looks hardly like a temple at all. It's more like…” She was squinting now to try and make sense of what lay before her.

“A fortress?”

“Yes.” Her shoulders were tense now, finally she had realised something was amiss.

“Well we had to fortify it. Too vulnerable otherwise. Never know when they could attack.”

“When who could attack?” She whipped around to regard him. Though she tried to restrain herself, the concern was evident in her voice.

“Why the rival gangs of course. We didn't become the largest faction in Luskan by resting on our laurels.”

“You said you were a priest of Tymora.”

“It's more that I implied it.” He smirked.

“Let me down, let me down now.” The panic in her voice was rising.

“I could do that aye, and you could walk all the way back to the Cutlass through the muck. But you’d have to hand over all your maps and take the first boat out of Luskan.” She could hear the edge in his voice now, the unspoken threat.

“You can’t do this.” She protested. “I’ve worked on those for months.”

“And I’ve cut my way through every half-way competent rival for just as long, not about to let some fool girl show the rest of them how to waltz into my lair.”

“They're my maps! I can't graduate without a thesis.”

“What you seem to be failing to grasp is that I could've just as easily cut you down there in the inn. I'm being more than fair.”

She didn't have a retort for that and only stared at him aghast. He said nothing more, allowing her time to weigh her options.

Isolde turned back towards the fortress. The horse had continued on through their argument and they would be there before long.

“And if I don't get down? What then?”

“You stay at Clearlight as my guest. Help me find these passages. My folk and I will help you find the vault. You get your receipts, I get the gold and then you can go on your merry way. Less the maps of course.”

[dustdeepsea]

Berdusk, the Jewel of the Vale, a Harper stronghold—just another city on the caravan route. Wherein: The Gate crew try to teach Olly some life lessons; Nora decides how much danger she truly wants in her life; it's a strange feeling to be young in a world that wants you to grow up as soon as possible.

aka Dust gets way too deep into D&D lore research, and writes a YA romance

I feel like I need to preface that this is very different from most of my other explicit work, so if you're here looking for smut, you will be disappointed. The characters are of age, but young—in their late teens/early 20s. The raciest thing that happens is a kiss. Be forewarned!

p.s. this is Olly, in case you forgot :)

photo credit @captainsigge

somewhere I have never travelled

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3, Forgotten Realms (D&D)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Relationships: Olly (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character

Additional Tags: Zhentarim (Dungeons & Dragons), Mistaken Identity, Young Love, Drunken Kissing

Read on AO3 (3190 words)

[wyrmsgatebait]

Astarion’s reaction to Tav suggesting he might be aging has been rattling around in my head, and it’s got me thinking angsty little thoughts about how cruelly he might’ve been to a human lover in the past. Relationships between elves and shorter lived races require so much compassion and maturity and Astarion...doesn’t have any of that. He was the sort to become smitten with a beautiful young human and let the relationship drag on for far far too long. Oh he would say sweet things in their  ear during party’s and spend a small fortune on jewels that would compliment their skin and the season, but the doting was purely selfish. Astarion wanted a blushing beauty on his arm the same way he wanted an ermine coat. It was nice to own but it was even nicer to drink up the envy of everyone who did not.

And he drank deep for as long as he could, but his human’s beauty withered away little by little. They poured decades worth of their heart into him only to see Astarion’s lips curl in disgust when the lines around their eyes crinkle. To the human he was their whole world, but a few decades is hardly a fling to a high elf. Really he was a saint staying with them until their 40th nameday...or just about...but it was well past time for a change. He wouldn’t keep roses in his foyer after they’d begun to rot so why would he use less discernment with his choice in bedfellows. There were tears, of course, accompanying insults and accusations of being a heartless curr. It might’ve moved him if the face those tears sprang from wasn’t so unpleasant, but instead he just shooed them from the estate and busied himself with preparations to meet his next potential paramour later that evening.  ... He never made it.  Cazador practically had to scrape him off the cobblestone to force the blood down his throat. Afterwards, the idea of being loved...of being looked at with kindness becomes laughable. Now his lot in life is doing his master’s bidding and hoping he’ll be allowed to suck rotten ichor from vermin. Through all the torment his face remains untouched by the centuries. 

[space-writes]

find the word

tagged by @oh-no-another-idea, thank you! my words are uncontrollable, once, feet, and shoe. i’ve been chipping away at the Glasya/warlock fic, so these are from there.

contains nsfw descriptive elements and Niamh being extremely gay for Glasya

[ID - a purple and black decorative divider]

uncontrollable → irresistible

well 'irresistibly', it’s close enough.

Her eyes are irresistibly drawn to the nest of reddish curls between Glasya’s, thick and glinting with copper strands, fanning out over the delicate skin of Glasya’s thighs. Fuck, she wants to bury her face in them.

once

This isn’t really Glasya’s palace, Niamh knows that. Can’t get to Malbolge without going through five other Hells first, those are the rules—though if anyone was going to flout them for something as petty as meeting with a warlock, Glasya would. It’s why Niamh chose her in the first place: she doesn’t give a fuck. However, it sure as shit feels like Glasya’s palace, just the way she remembers. She’s only visited it once, and once was enough. You don’t forget the feel of the place where the Princess of Hell plucked your soul from your body and replaced it with infernal magic.

feet & shoe

putting these together because the line is about some feet in shoes and. well. yeah.

And its Glasya who’s sat in front of her, with her feet in their pitch black, hellspike heels up on the bone-carved desk, slim bronze legs disappearing up into a dress that does so many incredible things to her already perfect body that Niamh is having something of a hard time concentrating. Which is bad news, because she’s here to talk about her contract.

[ID - a purple and black decorative divider]

no-pressure tagging @mjjune @viscerawrites @revenantlore and @monstrify with the words long, precise, crystal, and react.

(also paging @princessbonecrimes and @foxboyclit because this fic is i feel relevant to your Interests)

[scrollsaplenty]

Developing Feelings in the Underdark

Here's another little one-shot of my OC - Mara - and Astarion's developing relationship.

No trigger warnings.

Enjoy!

_______

Mara smiled and playfully nudged the pale elf, “Come on. Let’s get back to camp before the others wake up and come looking for us. If you behave yourself, I may even allow you to drink from me.” 

“Excuse me,” Astarion scoffed as he rose to his feet and extended a hand to Mara, “I am always a perfect gentleman. Come on let’s go. I need to feed and I don’t want an audience.” 

The Underdark was freezing. 

Even wrapped in a thick wool cloak and sitting beside the fire, Mara could not drive the numbing cold from her body. Desperately, Mara rubbed her hands together and blew against her frozen fingertips as a chill ran down her spine. Mara missed the comfort and familiarity of their old camp. The gentle sound of the river crashing against the sandy shores, the warm spring breeze that tousled her hair at night, and staring into the stars to fall asleep. 

Of course, the Underdark was beautiful in its own right. But it was a dark dangerous beauty. Everything was a beautiful threat; from the bright pastel bioluminescent mushrooms to the natives. It was hard to relax in a place that would devour you the moment you let your guard down. 

But the worst part was the chill that ran through the Underdark. It was worse at night when the party attempted to relax. 

“Shitty excuse for a sorcerer,” Mara muttered as she conjured a small fireball and held it in her hands, “Can’t even think of a single warming spell.” 

The small fireball radiated enough heat to thaw Mara’s frozen fingers. She let out a satisfied sigh and smiled. Mara tilted her head back resting against the thick mushroom stem she was sitting against. The stem was rubbery and covered with a thin layer of lilac velvet fibers that felt similar to the tapestries lining the walls of her bedroom in the Upper City.

The rest of the party slept a few feet away from Mara. Shadowheart dragged her bedroll closer to Karlach to absorb some of the Tiefling’s heat. Shadowheart wrapped herself in a heavy blanket and didn’t bother to change out of her armor for the added warmth. Karlach’s infernal engine glowed a dull red and raided enough heat to keep her comfortable. Karlach slept in her camp clothes on top of her bedroll, blissfully ignorant of the bone-chilling cold the rest fo the party experienced. Mara imagined the cold air felt amazing for Karlach. 

Her eyes fluttered to Astarion’s empty bedroll. After Karlach and Shadowheart were fast asleep, Astarion said he was going hunting and left. That was a little over two hours ago and though she would never admit it, Mara was growing worried. Mara knew Astarion was more than capable of taking care of himself, but this was the Underdark. 

Memories of the Gur monster hunter tugged on Mara’s mind. She nervously chewed on her lower lip as the memory replayed in her mind. Cazador’s influence extended to a putrid bog in the middle of nowhere. If that monster could send one lone monster hunter after Astarion, what would stop Cazador from sending more? 

Panic began bubbling in Mara’s stomach as her imagination ran wild. Mara dismissed the fireball and scrambled to her feet. She grabbed her daggers and quietly crept out of camp in the direction Astarion disappeared hours ago. 

Mara found a pair of light footprints in the mud and followed the trail to the water's edge. After a few moments of searching, Mara found Astarion perched on a rock overlooking the dark purple waters of the underground lake. Astarion seemed to be lost in thought as he twirled one of his twin daggers in his hand.

But he appeared to be unharmed. 

Mara let out a sigh of relief. Mara’s shoulders dropped and her heart stopped beating against her chest as she quietly approached the rock. 

“You should be back at camp keeping watch,” Astarion sneered as Mara sat beside him. 

“You were taking too long,” Mara muttered as she pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. 

A comfortable silence fell between the pair as they watched dull lights flicker off the lake’s quiet surface. The Arcane Tower loomed over the lake in the far distance as did the skeleton of the long-forgotten village. Fire beetles flew along the water’s surface before landing on massive branches of Barrelstalk protruding from the water. The distant hum of the Circle’s song echoed in the peaceful darkness. It was beautiful. 

In moments of silence like this, Mara was reminded of how deeply she used to long for freedom like this. Just weeks earlier, Mara was trapped in her father’s manor, watched like a prisoner by his guards and the Guild, and she was desperate for freedom. All she had for company were books and Kethan.

Now she was free. Parasite aside, this was the happiest point in her life. Mara was certain she could die this very moment a happy woman because she experienced more life in the past few weeks than she ever had in twenty-five years. Mara had friends, she took a lover, she broke free of one of her shackles, and embraced the magic she spent years fearing. 

Living - truly living - was intoxicating and Mara wanted more. 

Mara wanted to walk the same streets in Neverwinter that her mother once walked. She wanted to feel passion, she wanted to command the magic inside her to reign fire upon their enemies, she wanted to dance carefree with her friends once more, and she wanted to fall in love. 

Mara could be satisfied with the sliver of life she experience these past few weeks, but she desperately wanted more. 

Astarion noticed Mara far off in thought. A small crease formed between her dark brows as her golden-speckled blue eyes gazed across the water's surface. He also noticed Mara shivering. 

“Go back to camp and sit by the fire. I can hear your teeth chattering,” Astarion flicked a small pebble into the water. 

Mara shook her head and pulled her cloak tighter around herself, “The others are fine. I just want to sit here for a moment and think.” 

Once again silence fell between the pair. Astarion watched Mara out of the corner of his eye. Mara was losing hold of the woman she once was; the scared noble who was terrified by her own magic was slipping away. Astarion could see the confidence building inside Mara, and a part of him envied the young-half elf. 

She was breaking free from her chains, and as happy as Astarion was it terrified him. A more confident Mara meant she may not turn to him as much, wouldn’t confide in him as much, and he would lose his sway over him. 

It meant Mara may not need him. 

The building feelings Astarion still refused to acknowledge bubbled in the pit of his stomach. He hated himself for being worried that Mara would abandon him. Astarion replayed how fiercely she defended him to the others after he bit her in his mind. 

Astarion couldn’t let her abandon him - he needed Mara. 

“Perhaps I was too quick to turn away your company,” Astarion smoothed his voice and silently stepped into his familiar seductive character. He turned towards Mara and frowns at her shivering. He shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over Mara’s small frame. 

“There,” he says as he engulfs her smaller form in the cloak, “I can’t have my favorite little sorceress freezing, can I?” 

A soft gentle smile appeared on Mara’s face, “Won’t you be cold without your cloak?” 

Astarion shook his head as he moved to sit closer beside Mara, “No, the cold doesn’t affect me the way it affects others. You see, it’s one of the many benefits of my,” he paused for a moment to consider his choice of words, “condition.” 

Mara’s smile slipped from her face as her fingers gripped the heavy cloak tighter. She nervously chewed her lower lip before mustering to the courage to speak, “Thank you, Astarion.” 

Astarion loathed how he melted at the sound of his name on Mara’s lips. He despised himself for the dull ache in the pit of his stomach. The selfish part of him hated that Mara dug her way into his thoughts, into his feelings. 

“Consider it payment for the times you allowed me to dine on that delicious neck of yours,” Astarion replied as he flashed her a seductive smile. 

“You owe me nothing for that,” Mara’s voice was soft and sciencere, “You needed it, so I helped you.” 

Astarion hated how helpful Mara insisted on being. Whether it was a thieving child or a captured gnome, Mara extended her kindness to whoever needed it. She did it without expecting anything in return. She did it all while fearing they would think her a monster if they saw the magic inside her. 

“Stop being so nice. The hasn’t been kind to you. Why do you insist on showing everyone kindness when you receive little in return?” Astarion grumbled as a gentle breeze rushed through the pair. The wind carried her scent and it was like a drug for Astarion. 

Mara sat silently for a moment pondering his question. She hated how right Astarion was; the world offered Mara very little in terms of kindness. She never knew the love of a parent, was lied to and manipulated her whole life, and kept as a prisoner in her own home. The first time she successfully breaks free of Ilidan’s clutches sent  her right into the waiting arms of Mind Flayers, and now she was on a hunt to remove a parasite that would surly kill her. Mara had no rease to show the world any kindness, yet it was the obvious choice at every turn. 

Mara was determined not to posin herself against the world and show the world every ounce of kindness it denied her. 

“You’re right, I have no reason to show strangers the kindness I do. But it makes me happy,” Mara twirled her mothers ring around her finger, “I can’t become the monster my father made me believe I was. If I let my anger and resentment consumer me, then he wins.” 

Astarion heard the determination in her voice and chose not to push Mara on the subject. Instead, he filled his mind with images of the gloriously evil ways he would destroy Ilidan the moment he set eyes on the elf. 

“Well then,” Astarion sighed as he leaned back, “Then I guess I’ll have to stick around to keep the world from devouring you. I can’t have my favorite midnight snack being taken advantage of.” 

Mara smiled and playfully nudged the pale elf, “Come on. Let’s get back to camp before the others wake up and come looking for us. If you behave yourself, I may even allow you to drink from me.” 

“Excuse me,” Astarion scoffed as he rose to his feet and extended a hand to Mara, “I am always a perfect gentleman. Come on let’s go. I need to feed and I don’t want an audience.” 

Mara allowed Astarion to pull her to her feet and the pair began walking back to camp.

Both attempted to ignore their building feelings for each other. 

[shadow-djinni]

actually tbh I think I need to talk about my current project on here a little bit, just because it's living rent free in my head and dammit I'm going to make it pay up a little.

so I've been running a dnd campaign set in the Forgotten Realms for about a year at this point, and I wanted to set it somewhere other than the Sword Coast—problem is, that's the only part of the setting that got updated to 5e, so I've had to do a lot of digging around in older editions for research purposes, and uhhh...got really into Manshoon and Fzoul. and no, I don't actually care what anyone says (Ed Greenwood you can fight me on this actually), the subtext on the two of them is so loud and SO gay that it makes me a little insane? I'm normal about them. you know how it is.

anyway, the current fic project is a series of fics (some oneshots, some multichapter) set between 1257 DR and 1383 DR, tentatively entitled The Hundred Year Deception, just exploring that premise, that Manshoon and Fzoul were carrying out a secret romantic relationship while pretending to hate each other in public. series summary and current WIPs below the cut:

The Hundred Year Deception (series)

Manshoon of Zhentil Keep is many things—high lord, archmage, spymaster, nightmare—but above all else, Manshoon of Zhentil Keep is a liar. Fzoul Chembryl, high priest of the Black Altar, has made himself partner and accomplice in all of these falsehoods, and the one place the two of them can be completely honest.

Like a Bolt of Lightning from an Empty Sky

1257 DR

As a lord-prince of Zhentil Keep and heir to the seat of the First Lord, the young rogue Manshoon must prove his worth and right to his inheritance. When his quest goes catastrophically wrong and leaves him disabled and his companions unable to return home without disgracing themselves, he turns instead to a path that was denied to him—mastery of the Art of magic.

Back in Zhentil Keep, all is not well—the tyrannical Mulmasterite priest Ulsan Baneservant has seized control of the Dark Shrine and grasps for still more power within the city walls. Under his grinding heel, Fzoul Chembryl, a young cleric of Bane, seeks to push back against his new high priest's influence, without being executed himself as a heretic. As tensions within the city rise and enemies outside her walls pressage war, Fzoul finds himself chosen to right the balance of power—but not by his god. If Manshoon is to claim his rightful throne, he will need all the help he can get...before Ulsan ends his ambitions for good.

(at least 75k, rated M; endgame Fzoul/Manshoon/Chess, origin story)

Private Sanctums for Private Affairs

1339 DR

After much of the year spent abroad, Manshoon and Fzoul reconnect in the Tower High.

(~10k, rated E; Manshoon/Fzoul. this one's just smut)

To Raise the Dead from Untimely Rest

1357 DR

Set during the denouement of the novel Crown of Fire.

With the spellfire quest a total failure and at a cost too high to sustain, Fzoul and Manshoon regroup and tend to fresh wounds.

(~8k, rated T; Manshoon/Fzoul)

[dr-acula121]

Naturae Ferox

Summary:

Caught up in the manipulation and seduction of a certain vampire, Fen struggles with her own sense of control and autonomy, all whilst struggling to hide her own secrets.

A druid without connection. A Chosen without faith. Rage without control.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem OC

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Non-Con, Smut, Slavery, Abuse, Blood-Drinking, PTSD, Dissociation, Sexual abuse, Alcohol use.

All Chapters on AO3

Chapter 1: Clean

Chapter 2: Outsider

Chapter 3: Blasphemy

Chapter 4: Honesty

Chapter 5: Reflection

Chapter 6: Connection

Chapter 7: Rage

Chapter 8: Devotion

Chapter 9: Wine

Chapter 10: Moonlight

Chapter 11: Sunlight

Chapter 12: Scars

Chapter 13: Fire

Chapter 14: Truth

Chapter 15: Shackles

Chapter 16: Arrow

Chapter 17: Bottles

Chapter 18 : Pages

[seafleece]

After the transformation (death) of a friend, Shadowheart and Karlach go on a journey to take their effects home.

--

They’re not dead, just gone.

They’re not dead, just gone.

(She tries to think about Omeluum. She tries not to think about how Omeluum is not the name of its old host.)

It’s easiest to pray to Selûne on their behalf. When it’s not about them, she never knows what to say.